


The Autumn of Terror

by MadameWinter, Sister of Silence (Orcbait)



Series: Perpetual Nonesense [4]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Physical Abuse, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameWinter/pseuds/MadameWinter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orcbait/pseuds/Sister%20of%20Silence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1888. Arguments with Alistair Fitzroy always leave Lord Francis Stokes feeling drained and guilty when the former stomps off in anger towards the East End. Francis did not expect to see him again that evening, let alone hear of him. When Constable Renner shows up on his doorstep, some of Francis' worst fears come true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Just A Flesh Wound

**Author's Note:**

> We're in the middle of a retcon, so pay no attention to the last name and familial links swapping shenanigans compared to the previous stories. It'll sort itself out.

The day had dawned as a dreary, misty morning and was rapidly turning into a cold, uncaring night. Francis sat in the windowsill, staring out into the foggy street beyond without truly seeing it. They'd had a fight and Alistair had left, slamming the door so violently behind him that cracks had shot through the plaster like angry furrows. As if even the house disapproved. It had been his own fault, Francis knew that. He had brought it up. Again.

Was it wrong to wish Alistair be cleanly? Dress well? Francis wanted to help. Alistair need not figure it out alone. Francis was there to help, wasn't he? Evidently, Alistair'd had enough of it. Certainly, he had vocalised it in no uncertain terms earlier that evening. The words had stung. Francis wondered if his suggestions in the appearance department had stung too? He supposed he deserved the scathing words.

Francis stared out of the window and wondered where Alistair had gone. He sighed and wished he could pretend he did not know, but he knew all too well. Alistair had made sure of that. He had stalked straight across the square and pointedly down Arvin alley. Directly to the east. Straight towards the Ten Bells. To dance. To drink. To whore. Basically, to indulge in all the things he liked to do best. None of which included Francis.

See, Alistair wasn't functionally immortal like Francis himself. Alistair could get sick, could get hurt, could die. And reincarnate. And therefore Alistair didn't give a damn. If his habits didn't kill him first old age would. Francis knew Alistair well enough by now to know he hated the frailty and deterioration of ageing, envied Lionel his evidently eternal and spotless middle age. Was Alistair jealous of him too? Was that why he hated Francis' advice? Did it remind him he was older than Francis? Not as good-looking as Francis? Not as healthy as Francis? Not eternally young, like Francis?

Francis hoped he was safe, twice so because Alistair himself had so little regard for his own health. Francis could feel tears well up in his already burning eyes. He hadn't meant any of the things he had said, didn't want Alistair to think these things were true. He just wanted him to look nice. As nice as Francis knew in his heart he was.

The doorbell rang shrilly, jarring Francis from his thoughts. A shiver crawled up his spine as he heard Gates answer the door. Nausea settled in the pit of his stomach like a stone when Gates entered the parlour. Alone. Without Alistair at his heels. Without Alistair shoving his way past his loyal butler. Without the older servant quietly taking his master's lover's insults. Francis thought he might cry anew but no moist came to his eyes now. Only stinging pain.

"My Lord, constable Renner is here to see you."

"Constable Renner?" Francis echoed, the stone in his stomach turning into a ball of ice. "Why?"

"It concerns Mr. Fitzroy, your 'half brother'," Gates elaborated discreetly.

The bottom fell out of Francis his stomach at his words. "A-Al... what..?"

"I do not know, my Lord," Gates replied tactfully. "The constable would wish to see you as soon as possible. It-" But he stopped himself.

"What? It what, Gates?" Francis returned, his voice skipping an octave as his mind conjured up every scenario he had ever seen in a news paper.

"It seems urgent, my Lord." Francis was past his butler and out the parlour before Gates had even finished his sentence.

"Constable Renner," Francis greeted curtly, forcing his voice almost under control.

“Ah, Lord Stokes,” Constable Renner smiled. He was a portly man well past his prime but healthy and open despite it. “I am glad you are home.” His expression turned grave. “I understand we found your brother.” He glanced at Gates.

"Yes. What trouble is he in now?" Francis hoped desperately his distress could pass for irritation. And that it was indeed trouble that Alistair was in and not a body sack.

At the constable's suddenly grave expression Francis could feel his heart crumple.

"He had this in his possession, it's how we found you, my Lord. Without it we would have never made the connection." The Constable held up an all too familiar kerchief. It had been a gift. A gift from James, to be exact. It was embroidered with Francis' name and a terrible but applicable bible verse. Francis had been far too embarrassed to keep it, but Alistair had thought it positively amusing and kept it instead. He had not known Alistair carried it on his person. Francis was thankful his eyes merely stung.

Francis swallowed hard, his throat parched as a desert. "Yes, that is my Al- my brother's," his voice broke on the slip. "It was something of a jest. What has become of him?"

The Constable's frown furrowed deeper. "It is a despicable mess we pulled him from. He's hurt but alive. It could have been far worse."

"How hurt?" Francis echoed, his mind insisting on coming up with every possible gruesome version of not-quite-dead-yet.

"He was stabbed in the chest and abdomen," constable Renner returned. "Would you please come with, my Lord, so we can settle the matter?"

Gates was already helping Francis into his coat. "Lead on," Francis replied as he resisted rushing out the door.

If it had taken them all of forever to reach the police office Francis could well believe it. They had to circumvent a blockade, then an accident and got stuck in traffic. It was as if the universe was aligning against him – against them. For a hateful moment he blamed Lionel. Lionel loathed Alistair and most certainly had the prowess to align sun and stars against someone. Ruthlessly Francis silenced the little voice that piped up reminding him Lionel rarely lashed out unless someone threatened his loved ones first.

True, Alistair had not spared a single occasion to torment Lionel or cause fright to Charlotte, but Francis didn't believe he would actually hurt them. Not Charlotte and certainly not their little ones, anyway. Whatever was between Lionel and Alistair; Lionel undoubtedly had it coming. Alistair would not hurt innocents, threats to that effect or not. Francis was sure of it.

 _Please, be well Ah'le_ , Francis thought and found himself praying for the first time in forever.

When they finally arrived at their destination Francis had to wield all his considerable will power to walk calmly. He wanted to flat out run. He needed to see Alistair, hear his breathing, feel his heartbeat. The three dozen steps up the street and into the office were hell.

A young woman in the apron of a nurse came to them immediately. There was far too much blood on her for Francis his fraying nerves to handle. "Lord Stokes," she greeted, her blood spattered appearance making her swift courtesy unpleasantly macabre. "This way, he's been asking for you."

Francis' emotions did a nauseating somersault at her words. He'd been asking for him! Not a doctor. Not some whore. Him. _Francis._ "Bring me to him immediately."

Francis died inside all over again when he was led into the hastily transformed holding cell, now serving as an impromptu hospice. The smell of vinegar and blood assaulted his senses. Alistair laid on a raised cot, stripped to his waist and bound in blood soaked bandaging. And laid far too quietly.

Francis rushed to Alistair's side, taking his hand as he knelt. "Alistair?"

Alistair didn't respond. He looked so pale and ill. His breathing was shallow, his heartbeat too fast and superficial. Francis could barely feel his living core, the nourishing life force leaking from Alistair through his stitched wounds as if they gaped open still. Francis tried to mentally gather it, tried to stuff it back into him, but it slipped through his fingers like sand from a broken hourglass.

 _Perhaps?_ Francis concentrated as hard as he could. If Lionel could do it, then so could he. Damn it all to hell and back, he'd certainly try! Francis clawed at his own life force, heedless of the sudden stinging pain spasming through his chest and abdomen. He felt his heart rate rise, heard it pound accusingly in his ears as he ignored his body's protests. He pulled whole chunks free and patched them into Alistair with all the mental discipline he could manage. He worked in a blur, his fingers clenching around Alistair's. He kept at it, gathering the energy that slipped from his beloved and looping it back into him through his own soul. On and on he pushed himself, his knuckles white against the cold blue of Alistair's fingers. On and on, until those fingers suddenly, frailly, squeezed back.

"Francis..." Alistair's voice strangled into a rasp.

"I am here, Alistair. I am here!" Francis replied as he held onto Alistair's hand and reached for his face. Alistair's green eyes were dull as cheap glass when they found Francis. Francis smiled through the pain with relief as he stroke Alistair's cheek. One day they would shine again. He'd make it so. "I am here"

Alistair coughed hoarsely, alcohol wafting towards Francis as blood flecked Alistair's lips. For once, Francis didn't care. "It... k-knife." Alistair managed as he struggled to raise, but gasped in pain and sagged back down, his breathing ragged. "P-polly." He growled, struggling.

"I'll find who did it and make sure they pay," Francis promised. "Please, Ah'le, rest. You're safe. I am here."

"Francis..." Alistair weakly squeezed his hand.

"Yes." Francis smiled and stroke Alistair's forehead. "Rest, sleep." Francis didn't move from his side until Alistair had slipped into a quiet slumber and even then he did so reluctantly and only after checking his breathing three times.

When Francis left the holding cell he found a man waiting for him with the constable that, judging by his similar appearance to the nurse, was surely the attending doctor. "We have done all we can, lord Stokes," the doctor said compassionately. "It is up to God now."

 _No. No, it's not. It was up to me and I did it, dammit!_ Francis thought. And suddenly he understood Lionel's disregard of God. God would have surely let Alistair die. The rate at which Alistair's life had leaked from him he would not have lasted another hour. Not without _him._ Him sans capital. Him, Francis.

"Thank you for your aid," Francis replied thinly, and hoped he didn't sound as cold as Lionel had while holding his stillborn son. A sting ran through Francis' heart when he recalled Charlotte had very nearly died in childbirth that day. She had miraculously lived, but their first born had not. Francis glanced at the holding cell and thanked the very same God he had just cursed, that he was unlikely to ever have to face a decision as hard as the one Lionel had faced that day.

"What happened?" Francis inquired, unable to keep his cold anger from his voice.

"As far as we understand, your brother was at a pub - the Ten Bells, not a very reputable place. Not that I would judge, my Lord," the constable fumbled. "Allegedly your brother was quite imbibed and assaulted a woman-"

"Who proceeded to _eviscerate_ him?" Francis interrupted. "Pray tell me what type of lady she were?" He had a pretty good guess.

The constable looked particularly awkward at the topic. "A lady of as dubious a repute as the pub, I fear."

"And she accused my lo- _brother_ in defence of her brutal actions?"

"Just so." The constable replied. "She did appear tousled and upon questioning showed ugly bruises upon her neck and jaw, claiming them your brother's doing.”

Francis did his utmost best not to explode. Anyone could claim that! "That is hardly proof. It is a rough neighbourhood and while I lament her lot in life and regret my half brother's poor choice in past times, it proves nothing. More than likely she was after his money which he carried on his person to fund his... _evening out_.”

The constable nodded and took notes. "You can vouch for your brother?"

"Half brother,” Francis snapped. “And yes, I most certainly can." Francis added curtly in a fashion that surely made him look like Lionel's more comely twin.

The constable smiled. "Very well, Lord Stokes. My prayers are with you and your half brother's recovery, God willing."

 _You can keep your prayers and choke on them._ Francis thought spitefully. _If you actually did your job competently and this entire police force wasn't a farce, you would have prevented this_. He staunchly ignored the fact that it was a completely unreasonable argumentation.

"Thank you," Francis returned as kindly as he could muster. "Per chance, may I know the name of the one who may yet become my brother's murderer?"

"Certainly, " the constable agreed as he leafed through his notes. "Nichols. Mary Ann Nichols."


	2. A Dish Best Served Cold

Francis returned home on foot through the fog, his cane tapping on the stone cobbles as he slowly walked his way back. He trembled head to foot and his knees seemed to faze in and out of reality, which made walking a challenge. He was certainly grateful that Gates had the presence of mind to hand him his cane before he had left with Constable Renner.

The image of Alistair's near disembowelled body hung like a bloody spectre over his thoughts, casting a dark shadow across his mind and heart. It chilled him like the sharp chemical fog that clung to the air these days. He felt nothing, nothing but a darkness so deep it terrified even the voices inside his head into silence. And with every step he took, he waded into that black ocean, it's cold waters making him numb. Numbness in this situation was always a preferred state of mind, like going to sleep: it soothed away any hot twinge of guilt that might seep through.

"Let heaven not peep through the blanket of the dark..."

He seemed to feel the twitching of the blade concealed away in the shaft of his cane. It called to him, begging for blood to warm it. Francis would have been all too happy to oblige, but all murder needed planning. All satisfying murder.

The hunt on a supernatural or a criminal was legal, but murder... people seemed to take much more of an offence at it. To Francis death was death no matter how much you tried to sweeten and moralise it. Death came to all except him.

Francis stopped to look in the window of a trapper, gazing at the bodies of dismembered rats still caught in toothed snares and wire stranglers. Rows of bright yellow and orange labelled bottles stood to attention under them, as if proud of their achievements. The image of Polly drinking the sweet poison was quite a pleasant if pointless one. To murder her would be incredible stupidity on his part. His 'half brother' lay bleeding out of a dozen stab wounds in the make shift hospital at the police station of all places after fighting with a woman.... No, a whore, called Mary Ann 'Polly' Nicoles. To find her body the very next day would implication Francis rather strongly and a hangman's noose was hardly his idea of a pleasantly spend evening.

No, Polly would have to wait. As painful and infuriating as it was, Francis recognised patience as a virtue. Her life was one riddled with dangers. If something happened or someone got to her before him, then justice would have been equally satisfied and he wouldn't have to lift a finger. He smiled at the dangling rats. "To cry hold hold..."

"Them are dangerous words m'lord."

Francis had noticed the woman watching him long before she had spoken, but only now as the smell of cheap gin invaded his nostrils did Francis truly take notice of her as she slipped from the alleyway with a rustle of dirty garments. Francis turned, conjuring a polite smile onto his delicate features. “Lady Macbeth's speech as she watched Duncan enter her gate. Dangerous, certainly. Not that Duncan new that.”

Francis imagined the woman had once been pretty with a broad smile, but the years had not been kind to her and now her swollen face and wide mouth merely gave her the appearance of a leering toad. She swooped closer to him than he cared her to be, a lopsided smile upon her lips that reminded him uncannily of Alistair. “I'll take your word for it, m'lord.”

Francis looked at her brown teeth with a twinge of pity. Her front tooth had a black hole the size of a pea in it. “That hole must be painful.”

“Nah, not so badly m'lord. Amazing what a good cup of gin can do.”

“I can imagine.”

Francis turned to leave but the woman grabbed his sleeve. "Don't go yet m'lord. Do stay, talk to me."

Francis fought the urge to snap his sword from his cane and slice her grubby hand from her wrist. How dare she grab him in that way? But he maintained himself, his gaze icily cool as he glanced across his shoulder. “And what would our conversation be about?”

“I heard yours brother got into a dust up with Polly,” she replied on a tone as if it should tell him all he needed to know. “Quite a nasty scrap they had.”

Francis' eyes narrowed dangerously. She wanted something, but it certainly wasn't conversation. “Yes, she certainly seems to have a handle with a knife. My half brother is barely alive.”

“Yeah, she's a good girl. I taught her that twist that got your cousin.”

Francis let his eyes turn to steel. “I see. Should I then disembowel you in turn? It's only fair, one grief for another.”

The woman tutted and crossed her arms. “No, let's not fight, fine sir. We are civilised people. I have a thing you might be interested in hearing.”

“Whatever could a whore tell me that I care to hear?”

She looked him up and down. “I know what you try to hide. I know that you're even more disgusting as I.”

Francis' mind began to race to a million different things he had done that should remain hidden in the darkness; that if they became publicly known would ruin him forever. “That's certainly a... vague accusation.” Francis kept his expression light and amused. “Hardly a tale that will holds it's weight in court.”

“I saw you at the ten bells a few nights past,” she replied, smiling smugly. “Before yours brother caught Polly. Does he fuck well, your brother? At first I thought you was the one looking so rich and all, but I'm not sure.”

A pin could have been heard tinkling onto the cobblestones as Francis' expression grew darker and darker with her vitriolic words. “I'm sure you're mistaken,” he brushed off her accussation. “My taste doesn't extended to East End... food.”

“Nah, I remember that pretty hair of yours shine as you kissed him behind the stairs,” she returned as she gave him another look up and down. “Are his your whore or you his?”

“You are so very fortunate that I'm too much of a gentleman to kill you for your slander,” Francis replied icily. “And even if I was there, what proof do you have?”

“I was not the only one to see you,” she said triumphantly. “Cathy Eddows I'm sure saw you too, and Jilly Andrews. And what I have to gain depends on you.”

Francis stopped walking and turned to her, his expression cold. “Oh?”

“I like a little money,” she elaborated. “There's no harm in a few extra coins in my stocking once in a while. And I'm sure a rich young gentleman like m'lordship is ever so charitable.”

Blackmail. Why was he even surprised? The woman was resourceful, not to mention bold, but hardly imaginative. Of all the things she could have seen – the hunting of rogue witches, the assassination of influential people who might steer trouble, the blood of a small child on his hands... but no, all she sees is Alistair dragging him into the filthiest bed in England.

Damn it, Alistair, Francis thought, scowling. He knew the idle lie would come to haunt them. He knew it. Incest on top of homosexuality was a rumour he could hardly afford. Even if the accusation never saw a court room, the mere presence of such talk would leave him in permanent disgrace. And he highly doubted Alistair would bother to simmer down until it passed. Francis studied the woman's face. Confident, cunning and unscruplous. But easily flattered.

“Oh, my dear woman,” Francis smiled. “Whatever would you do if I were not the perfect gentleman you say I am?”

“I know a judge who does love a good court case to bolster his fancy ego.”

Right. Francis should have seen that one coming. He doubted she would have even approached him without some form of a back-up plan. She wasn't half stupid. Brushing her off would undoubtedly be foolish, especially if her talk proved true. Better err on the side of caution.

“But I am sure you won't leave a poor woman as myself out in the cold,” she added.

A slight smile unfurled around Francis' lips as he saw an opportunity unfurl. She really did think him sweet and gentle natured. Harmless. He had the measure of her now, but gas lamps were not his friend in this ploy. He turned up his collar against an imaginary breeze and offered her his arm. “Shall we then discuss this as the civilised English we are? I apologise, madame, I didn't quite catch your name.”

“Suzie Golburn.”

Francis bowed his head in as respectful a manner as he could muster. Smiling as best he could he turned and made his way slowly towards the promenade along the Thames. He found himself comparing the stench of the river to the odour of the woman beside him and couldn't quite decide which was worse. He tried not to retch at the stench of stale sweat and cheap sour alcohol that came off of her and hit his senses like an olfactory sledge hammer. He was so very glad James was no longer around to see this, for it would have been the talk of the neighbourhood within the hour if he had; the honourable Lord Stokes offering an arm to a fallen woman. Oh, how they'd gossip behind his back, thinking he could not hear. As his thoughts wandered he reached into her soul and, with careful tugs, started snapping its delicate strings binding it. It was ever so simple. Her life essence would bleed away without her ever realising it.

Perhaps he would tell her when she fell to the ground. Not long now. Although he doubted he would have the time, if the night watch was properly on the beat. If a police man didn't hear his call, having come upon the woman as she lays, he'd need to deal with the body. He glanced across her at the river. It was already the grave of so many, what was one more?

“So, my dear,” Francis remarked amicably. “How much would you like extra in your stocking?”

“Enough to keep my rent, and a pie and gin a day,” she returned, clearly having contemplated this before now. “I am not an expensive keep you see. I am sure you understand.”

“Oh, I do perfectly,” Francis replied. “Though I'd appreciate figures, book keeping and all.”

Suzie cocked her head to one side. Clearly she had not thought about actual numbers. Perhaps she had not expected to get this far at all. Francis had to admire her courage to some degree; not many people would dare try and blackmail the Queen's secretary. “A few pounds, I can't carry much. I've been mugged before and I don't like to invite it.”

“Do you have an account?” Francis knew fully well that she wouldn't even be able to walk into a bank, let alone have an account, but it kept the conversation going and her off guard as he teased the strings around her soul further apart.

Suzie laughed at his seeming ignorance to her state of life. “An account? You must be right joking, m'lord! I'd be arrested for even being near such a building.” She regained herself after a moment, though still amused. “Nah, I keep it in my beating bosom or my mattress.”

Francis chuckled slightly. It was an eerie sound amid the fog as they were. Suzie smiled, sharing the joke. “Tell you what, Suzie,” Francis said. “I own a small cottage on the outskirts of London. Small but with froom for a few chickens and a vegetable patch.” Suzie tensed, looking at him as if suspecting some sort of clever ploy. “You wouldn't have to worry about where to put your money again.”

She looked at him askance. “You're having me on.”

“Good graces, no,” Francis replied, amused at her reaction. “I'd prefer you weren't traceble to me, you understand. You can have the cottage, and you would conveniently forget about what you saw.”

Suzie pulled at her fizzing hair in thought. Small chunks of dirt and dandruff and even straw fell from it and onto Francis' coat. He dusted it away discreetly, his smile unwavering. “I won't be having to put up with that bastard landlord again,” she mused.

“I can't imagine a beautiful lady such as yourself has much problems in that regard?” Francis gave her his most charming smile while patting her hand. It was always satisfying when bait was swallowed. The woman was weary, clearly men had promised her many things and never delivered. Sickening memories of his own work on the streets hung like jeering shadows in the back corners of his mind. Even though he had emotionally deadened himself to the sorrows of the world, he understood the desperation that often drove these women. Unfortunately, compassion wasn't enough to warm the cold numbness settling across his mind. Better not think, better not remember.

Suzie unlinked their arms to swing girlishly around a green painted lamppost, chuckling as she swung. Soft winds caught her course woollen skirts, flapping them around her legs. She stopped to smile at Francis, briefly batting her eyelashes at him. “You are quite the charmer, m'lord.”

“I do try,” Francis replied with a smile, beckoning her.

She shook her head. “I do not trust you, however kind m'lord is. You could very easily be fooling myself.”

She had good instincts. Francis tried not to frown, keeping his smile playing around his lips. “Now why would I do that?”

“I is blackmailing you and you have a reputation to protect.”

Francis leaned over the railing to gaze at the Tower Bridge glittering in the distance. Glancing across his shoulder, he watched Suzie amble over to take his arm once more. “You're an honest blackmailer, at least,” he remarked as he felt the connection return, her life essence once more bleeding into him.

“I wouldn't if I didn't need the coin.”

A round moon rose from the clouds, it's reflection shimmering on the black surface of the Thames. Suzie took a moment to admire her companion; she hadn't properly seen his face in the smog of the streets. His face was shapely, almost feminine, illuminated by the soft moonlight as it was. His eyes were hooded in the dimness, shining gently with the reflected light and framed by womanly eyelashes. His scarlet hair was tucked away neatly into his collar. Suzie wondered how long it was.

The landscape seemed to swim in it's silvery light and grey mists, the bright light becoming so brilliant it hurt her eyes. It was as if it pierced her thoughts, leaving holes within her mind and incoherent notions in it's wake. Confused sleepiness settled over her and her head rocked against Francis' shoulder.

Francis let the thin strands run through his fingertips and into his own soul at a soothing pace, slow and steady. She wouldn't feel a thing, well, aside from drowsiness. He smiled when he felt her head rock against his shoulder. “Tired already? Dear, I must have forgotten the hour.” He glanced across the water at the illuminated clock tower. Nearly nine. He had missed dinner.

“Hm... hmm?” Suzie's hearing lost focus and his voice mingled with the soft rush of the water.

Francis' fingers tightened around the grip of his cane, but he waited. Patience was one of his few virtues. “Just think,” he mused as his gaze returned to the water. “In a couple of days, you'll have a cottage covered with ivy and pink roses along it's pretty thatched roof.” He could feel her soul begin to slip, the few strands that were left beginning to fray on their own. There was no going back. Easy now, if he pulled too quickly he'd absorb all of her into him and he really didn't need the nagging of an old whore to join the choir of voices already within his mind. “A small, flag stone patio surrounded by a vegetable patch and flower beds.”

Big Ben struck nine and high tide drew up to its peak and Francis clicked the handle from his cane. There was still no policeman to be seen. The gaslamp hummed like a nest of insects above them. “Fear, dear Suzie, it is high time we part.”

The narrow blade slipped from it's concealed sheath to slide almost soundlessly across her throat. A dark dribble of blood ran down her neck and soaked her collar, but no arterial spray marked the night. She had already weakened beyond return. She barely managed a slight gurgle as Francis gently tipped her forward and down into the murky depths of the Thames.

There was a harsh splash that, although expecting it, made Francis jump and swiftly conceal the rapier once more within his cane. He remained standing at the railing for a while, in case any casual observer had glanced him there. If they had not been alarmed now, fleeing the scene certainly would.

It wasn't long or heavy footsteps resounded through the fog. Leisurely steps, not the running tap of policeman rushing to a crime. Francis smiled and turned from the railing, walking in the direction of the blurred shapes coming towards him.

“Evening, my lord,” one of the two policemen greeted, his partner inclining his head.

Francis smiled and tipped his top hat politely. “And to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such it is very dear to us. We would love to hear what you thought on it. And please, share this story freely but credit us and link back to us. Thank you!


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